The Captain's Fate
by bronwe-iris
Summary: **Based on the Paper Mill Playhouse musical, NOT the Disney film!** With everything and everyone he ever cared about gone, Captain Phoebus de Martin has become a ruined man. Hopeless and alone, Phoebus wonders if he'll ever again see the woman he had once dared to love. And after tonight, maybe that won't be such an impossible thing after all.


**Hi there. I know I haven't been on this site in a VERY long time, and I'm sorry I haven't updated my other stories. I feel rather guilty uploading this when I have other stories in desperate need of attention. However, I was super inspired and had to quick write this. I promise I will work on the other stories ASAP.**

 **Now, about** ** _this_ story. This is not based on the Disney film. This is based off of the _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ MUSICAL by Paper Mill Playhouse that ran until April 2015. (Which in turn _is_ partly based off of the Disney film. But that's beside the point, as there are differences between the characters) So think musical, not Disney film. K? :)**

 **(Though I did take some stuff from the Disney film, like Esmeralda's eye color and Quasimodo's rainbow glass decorations. But that's all, I think)**

 ****WARNINGS** There is a lot of violence in this, and just a lot of depressing stuff, as the main character has severe depression. I know, I'm just a ray of sunshine over here by my keyboard haha. But seriously, if that stuff bothers you, this is your warning!**

/

The bells were ringing again. In his drunken haze, Phoebus couldn't discern what message they were echoing throughout the darkened streets of Paris, nor did he care. It was late. Far too late for any respectable person to be out, much less slumped against a damp wall in a filthy alley.

As the distant clanging continued, Phoebus wondered who they had gotten to replace Quasimodo. After Esmeralda's burial, the bell ringer had disappeared. Some said that he had drowned himself in the Seine. Others whispered of seeing the hunchback roaming the streets at night, searching for new victims to kill, as he had the gypsy girl. As disgusting as the lies were, Phoebus could never bring himself to dispute them whenever they began to circulate around a tavern he was in. That would only bring attention to himself – something he desperately wanted to avoid now.

Esmeralda. Her bright emerald eyes flashed in his mind, and he quickly brought the bottle in his hand up to his mouth. It was empty. With a frustrated groan, he flung the bottle across the alley, where it struck the opposite wall and shattered. Phoebus wasn't concerned though. He was sitting between a tavern and a brothel; no one would come to investigate such a common noise.

No matter how much he drank, she always managed to seep into his thoughts. The gypsy with the raven hair, sharp eyes and mind, and steadfast determination. She had been the light that broke through the fog that war had cast over him. And what had he done to save her? What had he done to protect the one good thing he had had after four years of nothing but bloody battles?

He closed his eyes and tried to push away the pain of an oncoming headache. Pain, either physical or psychological, was all he felt nowadays. He had tried to numb it, whether it was through alcohol or brothels or any fight he could pick, but it never left. It kept ripping at him, tearing into his heart and mind and very _soul_ , always whispering the same name over and over again.

 _Esmeralda…Esmeralda…._

He heaved a strangled sob, but his malnourished body turned the sound into a coughing fit. Choking, Phoebus struggled to climb to his feet, knowing he needed water, though all he really wanted was another drink. Reaching out with a shaking hand, he tried to grasp the edge of a nearby barrel to help himself up.

"There he is!" a voice shouted from the entrance of the alley.

Phoebus' head snapped up, and after the moment it took for his eyes to focus he realized he was facing three large men, all of whom didn't look very pleased.

"Whu…do'ya…" he tried to say, but his tongue was unable to move properly. Wiping a grimy hand across his mouth, he tried to push past the men.

"Oh, no you don't," said the middle one. He and the man on the left lunged forward and grabbed each of Phoebus' arms, holding them tightly. Frowning in confused anger, Phoebus tried to tear his arms free, but was too disoriented to successfully do so.

"You owe me money," the third man snarled. He stepped forward, arms crossed. "I'm the owner of this tavern. You've been drinking here for three nights in a row and your money ran out last night. I'm not letting you leave until you pay me what I'm owed."

Phoebus futility tugged at the hands latched onto him, not looking the tavern owner in the eye. "Don'…have it…" he finally slurred.

"Well, now, that's too bad," the tavern owner said. "I suppose we'll just have to beat the payment out of you. Boys?"

The bigger of the two men holding Phoebus didn't hesitate. Keeping one hand securely wrapped around Phoebus' arm, he curled his free hand into a fist and swung it forward. It slammed into Phoebus' stomach with a loud _thud_ as he doubled over with a pained gasp. Another fist connected with Phoebus' jaw; his head snapped back, and he tasted copper on his tongue from the split lip the hit had given him. The punches continued in hastened speed now, and when the two tavern men realized Phoebus had no intention of defending himself they allowed him to drop to the ground, where they continued the attack.

Pain seared from the multiple bruises blossoming over his body, yet Phoebus welcomed every blow. He deserved nothing less for what he had failed to do for Esmeralda, and for her people who had so desperately needed help. He thought he was being a hero at the time, but he saw now that he had been arrogant, insolent, even a coward. That's why he failed Esmeralda, and that's why he deserved this.

The sounds of the night seemed to amplify as the attack continued. Every punch was a cannon boom, every shuffle of feet the swish of a mighty sword, the noise of the tavern's chatter the roar of a mob…were the bells of Notre Dame still ringing? He was certain he could hear them sounding in his head, their melodious echoes damning him.

 _Esmeralda…Esmeralda…_

There was a loud _crack_ , and Phoebus gave a cry as he felt a rib give way beneath a boot's kick. His body instinctively curled up, but the movement did little to shield him.

"Enough."

Immediately the beating ceased. This was almost worse; with no new pain to distract him from the old, he now felt the agony from his numerous injuries burn with a searing ferocity. He moaned and tried to pushed himself up from the ground, but his hands shook violently and he collapsed back into the dirt.

The tavern owner's voice dripped with disgust. "Strip him. Anything of value goes to me."

His eyes half-closed, Phoebus could barely make out the two blurry faces that leaned over him. He felt two sets of hands on him, one of them turning him onto his back, and the other working at the fastenings that ran down the front of his shirt. As his chest was exposed to the cold air of the night, some of Phoebus' senses snapped back to him. It was just enough for him to realize what the tavern worker was tugging at – Esmeralda's pendant.

A week after Quasimodo's disappearance, Phoebus had been unable to contain himself any longer. He snuck into Notre Dame and ascended into the rafters where the bell ringer had once lived. In spite of his misery, he couldn't help but be in awe of the majesty of the place. The sight of Paris as twilight rested its soft light over it, the bells hanging from the ceiling in their grandeur, the glittering pieces of painted glass that were strung up over a worktable like some sort of decoration. Phoebus had sat there for a long time, content with simply watching the colors cast by the swaying glass dance across the floor. It had been the closest feeling to peace he had experienced since Esmeralda's death.

It was when he had stood up to leave that he saw it. Esmeralda's pendant, the one that had led him and Quasimodo to the Court of Miracles, had been lying on the ground beside the far leg of the worktable. Eyes wide in disbelief, Phoebus bent down and scooped up the trinket, turning it over to inspect it. Why would Quasimodo leave this? Esmeralda had meant the world to him, surely he would not have left it behind on purpose. Phoebus shifted the pendant in his hand, considering. Finally, he tied it around his neck and descended into the church below. And there it had stayed, against his breast and his heart, for the many miserable months that followed.

Now, as the tavern worker pulled savagely at the pendant to snap the string it hung from, a spark of fire Phoebus had thought long doused flared up in him. _Not her. You're not taking the only thing left of her._ With a snarl, Phoebus swung his hand up, slamming the base of his palm into the man's jaw. The man's head snapped backwards and Phoebus instantly lurched away from him, struggling to climb to his feet.

"Drunken bastard!" the man whom Phoebus had struck spat, wiping blood away from his mouth. The other tavern worker lunged forward, his hands wrapping themselves in Phoebus' shirt as he shoved both of their bodies to the ground.

Phoebus grunted at the impact, pain flaring from his broken rib. The tavern worker quickly delivered a punch to Phoebus' shoulder and Phoebus retaliated with a kick to the man's shin. Before Phoebus could force his battered body to move again, the man he had hit in the jaw rushed forward, hands outstretched and face twisted into rage. And then Phoebus did the only thing he could think of. A strange mix of panic and determination washed through him, and Phoebus reached into his boot, pulling out a small knife. He swiped it upwards, but his drunken movements were too slow and the tavern worker easily dodged the blade.

Phoebus once again thrust the knife forward, but the man's hand shot out and clamped onto Phoebus' wrist. "You really shouldn't have done that," the man said. His hand tightened viciously, and Phoebus ground his teeth against the pain flaring in his wrist. Then the man hit Phoebus right where his broken rib was. Phoebus cried out and his hand immediately opened, allowing the knife to fall to the dirt at his feet. The man shoved Phoebus to the ground and quickly picked up the knife. Holding it out towards Phoebus the man shook his head, breathing hard.

"Now, you try to focus that drunken head of yours and listen. You owe us payment and you've refused to give it. And so we are going to have to strip it from you, whether it be by your clothing or any other trinkets you have on you. If you corporate, maybe we'll leave you alone after. Now," he said, shifting Phoebus' knife in his hand. "Why don't we start with that pretty pendant around your neck? It's very interesting…rather like the things those filthy gypsies wear."

A sudden rage flamed in Phoebus, searing his mind and body like a hellfire of the brightest agony. With a shout of fury, Phoebus sprung to his feet and lunged at the man. The movement was so sudden that the tavern man barely had any time to react. And for a moment, Phoebus thought he had gotten the better of the man.

Then he felt the burn of his own blade slicing between his ribs.

For a long moment, everything seemed to have stilled. The sounds of the tavern men and brothel girls died away. There was only the calming rush of the distant Seine, and the echo of the cathedral bells. But these bells were different. The sound he heard, it was that of Quasimodo's ringing. No one had loved Notre Dame like the hunchback. No one had cared for and rung the bells like he.

Then he felt the ground slam into his back, and he was shaken back to alley where three men stood above him, one holding a knife that dripped his own blood onto his face.

One of them bent down, and Phoebus felt the string holding Esmeralda's pendant snap as it was jerked away from his body. He tried to speak, but only managed a gurgled cough. Next his boots were pulled from his feet. Blood bubbled from his lips and dribbled down his cheek, mixing into his matted hair.

"Leave the rest. But move him," the tavern owner's voice was distorted as it made its way through the haze to Phoebus. "I don't want a body lying against my tavern for customers to stumble onto."

Two pairs of hands once again seized Phoebus – this time, beneath the armpits and around the ankles. He felt his body being dragged through the alley, and flinched as a rush of chilled air stung his flesh and wounds. However, being moved so roughly proved to be too much for his body, and it took only seconds before Phoebus had passed out. He was unsure how long he had been carried while unconscious, but it was as though he had barely closed his eyes before he felt his body being dropped to the ground. A strangled cry escaped him as pain erupted from his injuries, but the tavern men said nothing. The sound of their footsteps faded into the night's mist, and then it was quiet.

Wheezing for air, Phoebus shook his head, helping his eyesight focus slightly. And then he realized where he was. His hand curled slightly, dirt shifting beneath his palm as he turned his head to gaze upon the Seine.

Its shimmering surface and grassy banks looked unnaturally calm tonight. Not a soul could be seen – no rowers, no fisherman, no lovers strolling. Only the moon's reflection and the smell of the earth were there to keep him company as his blood poured out of his body and soaked the ground. Clenching his jaw at the effort of it, Phoebus pushed himself onto his back so that he was staring up into the sky. Millions of stars glimmered down at him from the endless blackness above.

 _If there really is this heaven that you believe in, maybe we can watch from it together._

Her words drifted to him through his pained haze, and his heart swelled at the thought of her. Was she watching him now? Was she watching from the stars? She had wanted to watch together – with him. And he didn't even give her that. She had gone on alone, and he had stayed behind.

Maybe now he could finally fulfill her wish.

"Es…Esmeralda…" he whispered. He gave another weak cough, red wetness splattering his lips. The edges of his vision were darkening. The sounds of the Seine's rippling waters grew softer, and soon there was only silence to comfort him as he gave a long sigh, the last of his strength finally leaving him. Soon all he could see was the blurry whiteness of the moon.

Then that too faded away.

/

It was warm in the darkness. The pain of the beating the tavern men had given him had inexplicably gone away, and now all he could feel was a thick numbness. He felt dazed, but not in way that is influenced by drunkenness. This felt more like the fog one finds themselves in after waking up from a long dream. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were too heavy. He was both sleepy, yet alert. It was the strangest thing.

"Phoebus?"

His heart stopped. No, no it must be a trick. It couldn't be her. It was impossible.

"Phoebus, wake up."

Impossible.

But it was. He knew it was.

Then he felt her hand brush his cheek. He froze, unsure whether to laugh or cry or grab onto that precious hand and never let go.

"Phoebus, it's alright. You made it."

Made it? Made it where?

"To the place of miracles."

And then Phoebus opened his eyes.


End file.
